Call me a futurist
by arabellagaleotti
Summary: Tony Stark is a protester in MIT, and he gets arrested. This is what happens after.


"Police! Open up!" someone pounds at the door, first making the wood rattle.

The only thing he can think is: _Oh shit._

He grabs the laptop off the table, tucking it under his arm and sprinting for the backdoor. A battering ram comes down hard on the door. It shakes but holds, the awful sound of splintering wood ripping through the air. The next hit will be the last.

He skids out the back door just as officers flood the mostly-empty room. He's running down a long alley, mostly dark with only the pale, wan light from the moon illuminating the ground. As he passes, he slows, throwing out a fist to bang on the doors branching off the alley. A warning.

He can hear the police following him. His breath comes hard and fast, and his shoes splash down in puddles, wetting his socks. But he doesn't care, all the insignificant details lost in a whirlwind of white-hot adrenaline.

"Over there!" he runs faster, daring a look behind his shoulder. They're gaining fast, but held up trying to detain the others fleeing. He's the big fish, he knows that, and so do they.

He turns the corner, if he cuts across the square he can hide out behind the library, then head to Ty's across town.

He jumps down, running across the pavestones. The squeal of tires is the only warning he gets before a police car swerves into his path. Before the tires even stop spinning, an officer is stepping out, her gun aimed at him.

"Tony Stark, you're under arrest."

He huffs out a breath, raising his arms above his head in a comical gesture.

"That was cool, you from Die Hard or something?" He snarks, locking eyes with the officer, her hair tucked inside her cap.

"On your knees. Drop the laptop," she orders. He does so, kneeling in a puddle and sliding the laptop across the ground.

Rain starts to sprinkle down, and Tony closes his eyes, tipping his head back. "These violent delights have violent ends," he quotes to no one, but also maybe everyone.

The policewoman cuffs him, more police cars draw up, and officers troop from the alley, most touting others in handcuffs. He watches them, not saying anything, not having to. They stare back, so intently and unceasingly that officers snap at them to stop.

"What exactly am I being arrested for, officer?" Tony asks, still kneeling.

"Aiding and abetting terrorism," she answers shortly.

"Ah."

"You sound surprised," she notes.

Tony shrugs, "I just don't know if I would call it terrorism, but sure."

"Your daddy can't bail you out of this one, Stark."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Tony says drily, less entitled than a rich boy with no accountability should be.

The officer yanks him to his feet, People are starting to gather, huddled in curious groups. Oh, he can't wait for this. Absentmindedly, he reminds himself to send flowers to PR.

Rhodey's standing there, and Tony laughs, "see you, Rhodes!" he calls joyfully, as if he's not in handcuffs, as if he's not being dragged to a police car.

Rhodey doesn't respond, just stares back with icy eyes. He didn't know, per say. He _'knew'_ , if that's makes sense. He knew that something was up, that making so many chemicals in the lab wasn't normal, even for a prodigy/genius. He knew that people ushered into Tony's lab, only for them to reappear a few minutes later holding suitcases with Tony coming out after them, sometimes shoving a hand laden with bills into his pocket was suspicious, even if he never directly saw the deal taking place.

The officer holds his head and forces him down into a car. He goes easily, and stares out the window, his eyes meeting with Rhodey's.

"What's that?" the officer in front asks sharply.

"Nothing," he smiles, watching a raindrop tracing down the glass.

"I don't sell to terrorists, I sell to people trying to change the world," Tony repeats for the fifth time in an hour.

"Yes, we are aware of your sales to protesters."

"Then why am I here?" he asks plaintively, rolling his eyes so hard he gets whiplash.

"Because you sell chemical weapons, and have the ability to create more, putting the American public at risk. Some of the weapons you have sold—"

"They aren't weapons," he insists petulantly.

The interrogator signs, "your…. _products_ have been used in a number of attacks already."

"I know I've made a few sales to people less than trustworthy, but I follow up. Nobody was hurt."

"Are you aware of the property damage sustained to Shellblock Corp?" she slides a few photos over at me.

I inspect the photos, they show burns marks crawling up the side of a building and graffiti slashing words across a wall. The burns are his own take on a Molotov cocktail and the paint is a special blend that will not come off, no matter how hard you scrub.

"I don't sell graffiti." (you have to put it in the cans yourself.)

"We aren't concerned about the paint. You sell your own brand of Molotov cocktails," she stabs a finger at the burn marks.

He sighs, "look, we both know I'm not gonna get convicted for this."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm a minor, I doubt you have any real evidence, and if you do it's from...less than honest sources, I haven't caused loss of life or any real harm. But, most importantly, I'm a Stark."

She frowns, her brow creasing, "so you think you'll get out because of your father?"

He shakes his head, "no...well, yes. I think it'll look bad if his son goes to jail for 'aiding and abetting terrorism'. So, he'll try to get me out without making much of a stir, you could say he has contacts." Tony takes a breath, eyes locking with hers steadily, until she cannot look away, no matter how much she wants to. "But that's not the reason I do it, it's because I want to change the world, call me a futurist, but I can see it, and it's amazing."

"What's the relationship like with your father?"

"Oh, you wanna talk about my daddy issues?" Tony raises his eyebrows. "Dear 'ol dad never wanted a kid, he wanted a prop to be played for the masses. I'm a publicity stunt, a heir, so one day I decided that I'm _really_ gonna be a publicity stunt," he shrugs easily, "hope it's worked."

"Is that why you started acting out?"

He shrugs, "yeah. No. Maybe. It started with me going to a couple protests, to get the media on my tail and annoy dad. Then it just...snowballed. I got in with a crowd, bit of a radical bunch, they knew I was 'the prodigy', so they asked me to help. I did. Then, I helped some of their friends, and then those friend's friend's. You get the idea."

The interrogator takes a moment to respond. "You could have gotten away, but you slowed down to warn the others. Why?"

"Most aren't actually involved with me, just normal organisers. Some have used me for my...services, but most are at least semi-peaceful protesters."

"I see."

"What can I say: honourable work ethic," he shrugs again, shaking his head with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

"Huh. What do you intend for the future?"

He thinks for a moment, "let's just say this," he murmurs, leaning forward, "I was never told I could be anything I wanted as a child, I was told, clear as day, what is expected of me."

"Which is?"

"Stark Industries," he smiles, but without any emotion at all, "my legacy."

"You don't seem excited?" it's somehow a question, twisted by circumstance.

"Sue me, I'm not looking forward to killing people."

"Tell me about yourself," the interrogator changes tact, spooked by his bluntness, his knowing. People get spooked easily, he's learned.

"What? You want a character assessment?"

She shrugs, "sure."

He swallows, thinking for a moment. Once he starts, he can't stop. "I'm a social pariah. I drink, I sleep around, all in an effort to fit in, because even when I look like I don't care, my need for approval is ingrained so deeply I can't stop myself. I'm wary, you could say that I have been hurt before," his mouth curls into something akin to a sick smile, "and when I do trust, I trust with everything. How's that?"

She swallows, "not bad."

Tony smiles, brittle and ready to snap, "thanks, officer," he dips an imaginary hat — or tries to, for his hands are still cuffed to the table.

True to his word, the door opens not a moment later, a cold, angry hand landing on his shoulder. "Anthony," his father says, "let's go."

Tony stands, his chair scraping back. "Next time, ma'am," he says with a charming wink and jaunty smile, it's a terrible deflection, barely covering the dread in his eyes, let alone how his limbs are tight with hidden tension.

She only watches as he leaves, a terrible, grim flame burning in watery coldness inside her.

That boy might just do it.

Change the world, that is.


End file.
